Two Poems by Linda M. Crate

forty five percent

right and wrong are only separations in degrees
sixty six percent or thirty three?
i don't know,
my calculations always seem to grasp the
wrong instead of the right;
constantly berated for things i cannot control nor fix
i find myself wishing i were still a star
when i was no one would yell at me for shining
too brightly or not bright enough —
here there is knowledge unharvested hanging
in shadows of the trees, you don't know
something unless you can prove it
a girl tripping over her syllables and socially awkward
like me cannot articulate all she knows
so that must mean i'm an idiot?
i'm not, but they won't let go of that notion
let them think what they want —
finding my spark i'll just burn this world tomorrow,
and the ashes of my rage will betray everything i knew to
those full of apathy and indifference;
revenge is a poison you give to others yet you drink yourself,
but i'll gladly do it if it takes them out too
there's no reason their hatred should burn more
brightly than any star hung into the indigo black of night.




is the moon winter?

the world is
             o                                                              is the moon a land of constant winter?
             w                       snow                                                   l
f r   ow   n s are more common than                                      silver and lonely as
 a                                       i feel is
  l                                       l
   l                     f                ing, and all i can do is br | eak
    into the wind                                                     r
     n             s                                                        = n and lone,
      g            s                                                      o k e
                   u
                   r
                   e
                   d as the world that manufactured me
                                                                      e.